slow flying

that old plane like a bumblebee and up that fjord they’d gone low and in the clouds. one fork to the right and no turning back, he’d said. and it had been so perfect and so accidental that landing – the sky right down and the ice field coming up and that buzz always ever louder than it was fast. the instruments said zero elevation. and in that white out fog they hadn’t even realized that they’d coasted to stillness. that’s how you scrub speed on a frictionless surface, he’d reckoned. and then walked away to tell the tale.

 

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